She could still dream

c94516ae6f33935db20a1b6699a361fbThree illuminated numerical digitals on the clock radio along side her bed were frozen in time. A bottle of uncapped narcotic medication and two unfoiled packages of over the counters lay half unboxed and mirrored in a partially empty glass of water on her nightstand. Opening her eyes and looking over at the clock with the hope it was closer to six than twelve; she asked out loud a question. “Is the glass half empty or is it half full?” Not that she thought anything in her life lately would lead her to an answer to the positive of that question. She used to be an optimist. There was little hope however that she might surprise herself and say, “half full.” She had taken too many naps yesterday and had paid the price tonight. Rolling over and away from the clock her optimism suddenly sparked as she recalled a dream she had from her late morning nap the day before. She seldom had a sex dream, but that had been a good one. She savored the sensations and recreated the dream in her mind slowly holding on to each kiss and embrace. A side effect of her medications among other things eliminated most of her urges, but occasionally, thank god occasionally, she still could dream. A small strip of light from the window near the bed drew her attention away and she realized it was dawn. She had purposely not closed the curtain all the way the night before hoping to see the sun come up. The window had a view to the east and despite all she had been through, she was still a sunrise person. As she lay in bed feeling weary and frustrated she surprised herself by thinking that hopefully tomorrow would be a better day.

One thought on “She could still dream


    ( By Vladimiro Rinaldi,
    web site of countryless poetry

    All the people (or nobody ) are important .
    Those who think only the VIP are important
    are wrong.

    The best people are good people
    They exist really they do.
    All over the world .
    I met some travelling
    As a poor among the other poor..

    With my consumed sleeping bag
    And the Youth hostels card
    A pennyless poet of the road I was
    A vagabond a foreigned to be avoided
    for some
    And a person to be respected for other ones.


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